Turning Blue: A Life Beneath the Shield

By Lawrence Hoffman

As a kid growing up on Long Island, I struggled with an unknown psychological need to wear a uniform and a strong desire to be a part of an organization. My search would take me through Little League, Cub Scouts, and various fraternal organizations. This desire would only be fulfilled after joining the NYPD in February of 1984.

Somewhere during my twenty-year career, I was transformed from that kid into a veteran New York City police detective. This is my evolution from a middle-class suburban kid with simple values who naively thought the “projects” were a homework assignment into a veteran detective working in some of the most unforgiving neighborhoods of New York City. With this transformation comes the ability to separate the daily exposure to the dark side of human nature from your own life-sustaining core beliefs. Many will fail to acquire this ability and fall victim to drugs, alcohol, divorce, crime, and even suicide. This is a process which I have come to call Turning Blue.

This is my story of how I dealt with life-changing experiences at home while my gun belt and uniform hung safely in my locker. In my twenty years of experience as a police officer, I can honestly say that I have been scared and feared for my life. Could you go back to work after crying yourself to sleep, reliving your partner's screams as he lay bleeding to death in the backseat of your unmarked car, and the only thing keeping your heart in your chest was your department-issued bulletproof vest?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781682891056

Book preview

You’re Gonna Get Yourself Killed!

Three beeps break the temporary silence of the Motorola radio attached to my gun belt. I wrestle the portable radio out of its holder, hold it to my ear using both hands, and intently listen as central dispatch broadcasts an urgent message: Units in the Seven-Seven precinct, receiving a signal ten thirty-four (10-34 - assault in progress). Female shot at 721 Sterling Place, third floor.

I was just out of the academy and assigned to a field training unit known as Neighborhood Stabilization Unit - fourteen (NSU-14) turning out of the Seven-Nine precinct in Brooklyn, New York. Fresh out of the academy, NSU would give us six months of on-the-job training before we were sent to our permanent commands. NSU-14 covered four precincts in the borough of Brooklyn North: Seven-Seven (Crown Heights), Seven-Nine (Bedford Stuyvesant), Eight-Eight (Fort Greene), and Eight-Four (Brooklyn Heights). During these six months, we would receive ten tours patrolling in a sector car while the rest would be on foot posts throughout all four precincts.

This day, I was assigned to work in the Seven-Seven precinct as foot post #4 on Nostrand Avenue in Crown Heights. Earlier that morning, I was herded into a marked police van at the Seven-Nine precinct with the rest of the rookies where I waited for my post number to be called. As the van pulled up to the corner, the driver looked in the rearview mirror and yelled, Post four. You’re up.

I backed out of the van, put boots on the ground, and laid claim to my territory. At this early time in the morning, Nostrand Avenue was quiet. But I knew, as the sun traveled across the sky from east to west, this place was gonna be jumping. I would soon find out that this day would change my life forever and make me question my career choice.

I squeeze the transmit button on the side of the radio, and in what I hope is a calm voice reply, Post four is on the corner, Central. I will check and advise.

Are you a one-man post, post four?

That’s affirmative.

Central transmits, Any Seven-Seven units available to back up post four on this ten thirty-four (10-34) on Sterling Place?

The patrol sergeant responds back, Seven-Sergeant on the back.

The second building off the corner is 721. Chilling screams drew my attention upward as I step to the front door of the address. A woman desperately hung out of a third floor window. The hair on my neck stood at attention. The woman’s screams and the wail of the siren on the approaching police car seem to merge into one.

The entrance is locked, so I ring every bell until someone buzzes, breaking the magnetic lock. I held it open, allowing the sergeant and his driver to enter behind me. I race up the stairs, taking two at a time. I still remember unlocking and removing my gun from the holster, being conscious of pointing it in a safe direction. To me, it was like unlocking the Holy Grail. The magnitude of power and the responsibility of drawing your weapon are both exhilarating and overwhelming at the same time.

I’m charging up the stairs with my Smith & Wesson .38 caliber revolver in my right hand. I remember that it felt extremely heavy. Its weight is a symbolic reminder of the immense burden of accountability that comes with releasing and drawing your firearm from the safe haven of your leather holster.

As we get closer to the third floor, the sergeant grabs me by the arm and stops me mid-step saying, Slow down, kid! You just can’t go running in there! You’re gonna get yourself killed! You gotta look…you gotta listen…you gotta smell…use them all. I looked at him wide-eyed, nodding my head as I tried to catch my breath. I inhaled deeply, tugged on my hat, and continued more cautiously up the stairs. I started to come out of my tunnel vision. I have often heard that time appears to slow down at moments like this, and I could honestly say that this is true, along with the fact that everything happens so quickly.

On the third floor landing the woman’s screams became deafening. There was an open door with an orange extension cord snaking out of the apartment, running into the hallway. As we made our way closer, I could see that the lock had been kicked in and hung off the partially opened door. I looked at the sergeant and said, Looks like we’re in the right place. I turned the corner into the doorway letting my gun lead the way. I could see there was a short hallway adorned with family photos opening up into a larger area which was the living room. Peering over the barrel of my gun, I inched my way in. My eyes were as wide as possible, afraid to blink, for fear of missing some movement which could cost me my life. I could see two closed doors ahead and a kitchen on the right. My gun felt like a giant magnet as it pulled me into the living room. Screams were coming from the closed door on the left. I made my way into the kitchen area near the second closed door.

The sergeant and his driver positioned themselves behind the couch with their guns trained on the door where the screams were coming from. The boss pointed to the door near the kitchen area, indicating he wanted me to clear the room. I nodded and grabbed the knob and pushed it open. My magnet pulled me in.

What I saw remains as vivid today as it did when that door opened twenty-four years ago. It will stay with me forever, along with hundreds of other haunting images which I have collected over my twenty-year career. They have conveniently tucked themselves away in a part of my mind which, with any luck, will be rarely visited. As I write this story, I carefully peer in, being careful not to disturb the other sleeping ghosts.

The opening bedroom door reveals a boy, maybe five years old, staring at me with these wide-open wet brown eyes. Our eyes met for what seemed like an eternity, but I’m sure was just a second. He was standing over a female about twenty-five years old, his mom, who was laying face up on the floor with a large wound to the left side of her forehead. My eyes darted around the room quickly and determined the room to be clear. The boy looked to me for answers. I had none. I was in full police mode now. This was no exam or test. This was as real as it gets, and my life was potentially on the line. I indicated to the sergeant that we had a confirmed female shot, and the room was clear.

I motioned to the boy to be quiet and to get under the bed. I backed out of the room and closed the door behind me. I stepped into the kitchen and turned the table over and used it for cover with my gun drawn on the last closed door. My body was fully engulfed in the moment. I was ready. Game on. I was making sure I was going home tonight. With the door covered from three points, the sergeant commanded, Open the door slowly and show us your hands.

The screaming subsided for a moment, and the knob jiggled and slowly turned. I closed my left eye, allowing my right to align the sights on my gun as I waited for the devil himself to emerge. An elderly woman stepped from the room and collapsed onto the floor yelling, He shot her, he shot her!

We determined the apartment to be safe, and the sergeant got on the radio and notified the dispatcher that there was a confirmed female shot and requested an ambulance forthwith. I holstered my gun, pushed the table aside, and slowly opened the door near the kitchen. I got down on one knee and peered under the bed. Those brown eyes came back to mine. I gave him a soft smile and grabbed him by the hand and lead him out of the room. The boy’s grandmother leaped from the living room floor and smothered him in a protective hug.

The sergeant maneuvered the grandmother and child into the opposite room, out of sight of the boy’s mom. The sergeant’s driver and I went into the small bedroom where the woman was laying face up. Her eyes were half open and amazingly she was still breathing. The hospital was nearby, and because of the severity of her injury, we decided it was best to transport her in the RMP (radio-mobile-patrol / police car). Every second could make a difference.

I pulled the bedsheet off and laid it on the floor next to her. We gently rolled her on to her side and slid the sheet under her. I grabbed one end of the sheet, and the driver grabbed the other, as we picked her up and carried her into the living room. I said to the sergeant, Boss, we can’t wait for a bus (ambulance) we’re gotta take her in the car. He nodded to us, and we exited the apartment. We stepped over the orange extension cord and carried her down the three flights of stairs in the bedsheet stretcher. We struggled as we awkwardly snaked down the narrow stairwell.

We got to the car, and the driver opened the back door. I slid in first while pulling my end of the homemade stretcher. The other officer pushed from his end and closed the rear door. Her limp legs were bent up against the rear passenger door, and her head rested in my lap. I moved the sheet away from her face as the driver started the car, sounded the siren, and pulled from the curb. I looked at her, and I could now clearly see a large entrance wound on the left side of her forehead. Her breathing was horribly erratic. I could feel her fighting for life. I looked for any encouraging sign in her unfocused, half-opened eyes and gently began to talk to her. I leaned in close to her face and whispered, Don’t give up on me… please. You’re gonna be okay. Just hang in there. The white bedsheet slowly turned crimson as her blood eerily creped down before my eyes.

I can’t recall any of the ride. I just remember talking to this girl and seeing those same brown eyes that I saw when I first opened that bedroom door. I was jolted back to reality when the car door suddenly flew open, and we arrived at the hospital. The process was reversed as we removed her from the car. Doctors and nurses greeted us at the emergency entrance. They put her on a gurney and shuttled her into the hospital, yelling in medical language I couldn’t understand. I stood at the door for a moment looking at my blood-smeared hands. My pants felt cool and sticky where her head had rested in my lap. I stood out of the way, taking deep breaths as I tried to comprehend what had just happened in the last ten minutes. The driver returned to the scene to lend assistance to the sergeant.

I knew my job didn’t end here. It was my responsibility to gather information and make notifications. I walked into the hospital bathroom and washed my hands and face, trying to remove any personal connection to the girl. I couldn’t allow my emotions to interfere with my responsibility of handling the shooting on Sterling Place.

I phoned the Seven-Seven precinct and advised them of my location and was told to keep the detectives updated. I asked the hospital staff where the victim was taken and made my way toward a makeshift operating room. She was surrounded by ER workers, all dressed in blue, as beeping machines converted her condition into ever changing numbers.

I noticed her clothing was balled up on the floor and grabbed a pair of plastic gloves from a dispenser on the wall. I knelt and started to go through her belongings to see if there was any identification or papers to indicate who she was. As I was doing this, the doctors started working frantically on her. Her chest was cut open, and the doctor began to massage her exposed heart. I felt like an intruder kneeling in the corner, as I sifted through her blood soaked personal property.

After a few minutes, they stopped and turned off the machines. The beeping machines gave way to silence. A nurse pulled up the sheet as the blue staff snapped off their gloves with a pop. The doctor announced a time through his facemask, and it was all over. Nothing more to do. She was gone. I got the doctor’s name, time of death, and phoned the detectives. The case was now classified as a homicide.

Later, after signing out, my tour of duty was over. I went downstairs into the Seven-Nine locker room with the rest of the new jacks. There was always an excitement in the locker room at the end of each tour. Everyone seemed to magnify and boast about the incidents that took place on their posts. Although I clearly owned the bragging rights for the day, I just didn’t feel like talking about it.

In slow motion, I removed my gun belt and laid it across the hard wooden bench in front of my locker. I noticed that my handcuff case and my memo book holder had light green paint smeared across them. I sat for a moment and tried to figure out where it came from. Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I carry my memo book holder in my rear pants pocket, and my cuff case is located on the back of my gun belt. I remembered that the paint in the narrow stairwell on Sterling Place was that same color green. I visualized myself and the sergeant’s driver carrying the gunshot victim down the stairs and recalled having to brush against the winding stairwell walls as we hurried out of the building. That paint was a daily reminder of what I might be exposed to on any given day.

I later found out from the Seven-Seven detective that caught the case that the incident stemmed from an ongoing dispute between the girl and the superintendent. He chased her with an electric drill until the orange extension cord pulled out from the wall and then decided to finish the argument with a single gunshot to her forehead. He changed many lives the instant he pulled the trigger, including mine. To this day, I don’t know his name, if he is black, white, Hispanic, how tall he is or how much he weighed. But I will never forget him. He was later arrested in Puerto Rico and brought back to New York to stand trial.

Today, I looked death in the face. I wondered how many more times in the next twenty years we would meet again, on what terms, and who would win. I also wondered if I had what it took to do the job.

I realized that I would have to learn how to separate my personal life from the job in order to protect myself and my relationship with my loved ones from emotional destruction. I knew that I had a long way to go before I became a veteran police officer.

I still thought of myself as a skinny kid from Long Island, who loved life, friends and laughter. What happened that day was so completely different from the life I lived just 25.4 miles from here. It was as if I had crossed the border into an entirely different country.

Headed east on the So. Conduit Boulevard., I tuned my radio to Z100 and tried to transform myself back into that fun-loving kid from Long Island. Deep down inside, I knew Z100, or anything for that matter, wouldn’t be able to accomplish that. A piece of my childhood innocence was lost that day, lost somewhere in those unfocused eyes. As I looked over at the crumpled blood-stained pants on the seat next to me, I wondered why I was so drawn to wear a New York City police officer’s uniform.

TWO

I Met an Angel

I had an infatuation with people who wore uniforms, a desire to become a member of an organization, and an undying need to belong at an early age. My first taste of this was fulfilled on Christmas Day when I was four years old. I have an old Polaroid of myself standing at attention in a complete U.S. Army uniform with my trusty rifle at my side, probably repeating, This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine. I was standing guard amid an array of unwrapped toys, including Thunderbolt the Horse and a World War II army man set. My posture was perfect and except for my hat sitting a little askew atop my head, my uniform was crisp. I blame my inspecting sergeant for that wardrobe malfunction. But everything wasn’t always as idyllic as that photograph portrays. I will forever be haunted by the image of a lion.

I was born on Long Island, New York in 1959. My mother, Patricia, was a very loving and caring parent. My father, on the other hand, abandoned us early on and didn’t stick around long enough for me to touch the contours of his face. The only vague memory I have of my father was that of a faceless form leaning over me and some strange association linking him to the image of a lion. I often wondered who and where this faceless man was. And what was his connection to a lion? Was he Tarzan, lord of the jungle?

No one ever spoke about the faceless man. It was as if he never really existed in the outside world, and I always felt that I was too young or afraid to ask about him. However, he has managed to thrive inside of me, like a parasite slowly devouring its host, leaving me eternally injured and always needing to find a way to heal myself on many different levels.

My mother was the youngest of twelve children (one of whom died shortly after birth). God bless my grandparents, Mary and John. I can only imagine the fun and conflict that must have coincided in a home with that many people colliding with each other on a daily basis.

My mom was raised in Lynbrook, Long Island where she was a very popular and athletic girl. My aunts and uncles were all good athletes in their own right. One uncle I particularly remember is Uncle Nick. He was voted First Team All-American for two years (1939–1940) at Cornell University. He was drafted by the Cleveland Browns in 1941 and inducted into the College Hall of Fame in 1981. My mother’s sister Vera was a great golfer, who, during her golfing career, had three hole in ones. She hit the last one when she was well into her eighties.

Being a single parent back in those days was very difficult and not well accepted, which caused friction with my grandparents. Somehow, my mom was able to do what needed to be done, and I am grateful for her sacrifice and struggle.

At the age of three, I met an angel. This angel went by many names: Jack, John, Jake, Jake the Snake, Mr. P. Brojack, Uncle Jack, Hun, Honey, Sweetheart, Dear, Grandpa, Dad, and my personal favorite: Pop. To me, he was a giant of a man who had balding slicked back black hair and a perfectly groomed handlebar mustache that looked like you could do pull-ups on it. He had the largest hands and wrists that I have ever seen, and they were as smooth as silk. He could give you quite a swat with his huge hands or be as loving and tender with his smooth touch.

He was so many things, to some many people, and one of the most caring, giving and unselfish people to ever walk the earth. God absolutely has a special place for this man in heaven with an ice cold beer at the ready. Other than the small detail that we don’t have any of the same genetic makeup, he is my dad.

But realizing how great a man he is was not an overnight process. Being a step-parent is a very difficult job. I don’t want to undermine the job of a natural parent in any way, but to fill the shoes of a father or mother is a challenging and demanding job. In my case, there were no shoes to fill, so his were just right. At times, he was able to fit his size twelve’s in my ass when needed although our opinions for what those times were may have differed. Looking back, I’m sure his judgment was clearer than mine.

Pop had a biological son named Jay, who was four years my elder. When I was about three years old, a decision was made for my mother and me to join forces with Pop and Jay and become a family. We left our Lynbrook apartment and moved into a one family house in North Bellmore. The transition was not easy for me at first. I went from being an only child to the youngest child in a matter of minutes. I did get my own room though, which was sweet.

Although we were a modified condensed version of The Brady Bunch, minus the girls and a maid, my upbringing was like any normal middle-class family. Domesticated pets were always a huge part of my early life. Over the years, any combination of rabbits, fish, birds, gerbils, turtles, and dogs could be found inhabiting the property.

My stepfather had a soft spot for strays and dogs that were being given away. For a short time, nine dogs called my house home. We had a German shepherd named Satan, and a Belgium shepherd named Duchess. Both of these dogs were acquired from other families. Duchess was mated with a full-bred Belgium shepherd stud and gave birth to six puppies. After a family visit to Brooklyn one day, my father spotted a white German shepherd running loose along the Belt Parkway. We stopped and rescued the dog from certain death and brought him home. We called him Bullet and added to our ever growing animal kingdom. My parents placed an advertisement in the newspaper stating the location and type of dog that we found. About a month later, Bullet was returned to his grateful owners.

In an odd way, I see myself as one of those strays taken in by my stepdad. Maybe he viewed me as a future asset. As you could imagine, nine dogs generated a lot of poop, and it became the job of yours truly to clean up that mess before the neighbors had the house condemned. And let me tell you, I could shovel shit with the best of them. It was all in the wrist baby. Bag ’em and tag ’em, Johnny! Our house was unquestionably the safest on the block and a mailman’s nightmare.

THREE

You Want to Know My Winning Secret?

A blue and yellow Cub Scouts uniform replaced my army outfit as I started to sprout. I became a member of a pack, complete with our very own den mother. In no time, I was a highly decorated Cub Scout, fulfilling my task requirements at the speed of sound. One of my favorite events was the Pinewood Derby. Each cub was given a small block of wood which he had to shape and mold into a racing car with little plastic tires that were held in place by nails. We would race these cars down a twenty-foot pitched race track against the other Cub Scout packs in the area.

I think my stepdad loved this event even more than I did because he couldn’t wait to get his hands on that block of wood. He brought the small rectangle piece of pine down into the basement like Dr. Frankenstein, where he would bring it to life. I was afraid to go down there after hearing sounds of evil, deep-throated laughter, woven between vibrant bolts of electricity sparking off metal objects. He would come up days later holding this perfectly shaped wooden race car. One swipe of the hand and the four wheels would spin frictionless for minutes.

On race day, I proudly walked into the gymnasium of my school, Newbridge Road Elementary School, where the event was held. I carefully carried my race car in both hands as if it were a priceless Tiffany lamp. Scouts from neighboring packs tugged on their father’s shirt sleeves as I strutted by them with the Pinewood Derby’s equivalent of Secretariat in my outstretched hands.

I found the folding table with our pack flag draped across it. I gently set the car on the felt covering and surveyed the gym for signs of competition. Apparently, other dads had decided to make attempts at producing winning cars. Although some appeared to be remarkable specimens, they all paled in comparison to the champion, which sat temporarily motionless at my side. I couldn’t wait to unleash the wrath of my stepfather’s aerodynamic creation on the unsuspecting visiting packs. Not in my house!

There were always those one or two kids, whose dad either worked two jobs or had no desire to participate with the scouts, who shaped their own car using just a dull Cub Scout folding knife. For safety reasons, those knives couldn’t cut through air without difficulty, let alone whittle a sports car out of pine. Their cars looked like they had already been in a horrific crash on the way to the event. But to their credit, they still participated in the race.

My car made it easily through the qualifying heats. I cheered my fellow scouts as their cars roared down the track. As the night went on, the slower cars were eliminated from the competition.

The main event had arrived with only two cars remaining. The final showdown included my car and one from a neighboring rival pack. The excitement grew as the cars were released at the top of the track. Both cars surged from the gate with equal speed, but his was no match for mine. My car hit the halfway mark and quickly distanced from its enemy. Secretariat thundered across the finish line to claim first prize.

It was a joyous occasion, and our pack celebrated my victory over sundaes at the Friendly’s Ice Cream Shop just up the block from the school. We were all smiles as we bounced around in our booths, talking over each other, sticky ice cream and toppings smeared all over our faces.

As soon as we parked in the driveway, I ran from the car eager to tell my mom and Jay the outcome of the competition. My mother fed off my excitement, while my stepbrother could give a rat’s ass. He was four years older and thought the Cub Scouts were for little boys. He had been a Cub Scout himself but never had a winning car, so I believe jealousy played a big role in his reaction. After creating several losing cars for Jay, my stepfather had finally perfected his skills.

Pop walked in behind me carrying our gladiator. He was very proud of his creation. My mom was very happy for the both of us. My stepfather asked my mom, You want to know my winning secret?

Mom said, Secret? What do you mean secret?

Pop proceeded to turn the car over and scraped the paint off the bottom to reveal a little trap door. He pried open the tiny vault, shook the car, and a hunk of lead fell from the car’s belly onto his hand. The wood had been hollowed out, and a piece of lead had been inserted into the hull, giving the car added weight and an unfair advantage over the other much lighter cars. He stood there with the hunk of lead in his hand and a devious smile on his face.

My mother stared at him momentarily and said finally, You cheated.

My stepfather answered with a shrug of his shoulders, as both my mother and I turned and walked away. He stood alone in the dining room with his monster, calling out after us, Nobody said you couldn’t do it.

Cub Scout regulations stated that a competing car could not weigh more than five ounces. Mine could have doubled as a bowling ball, being just a couple of ounces short of requiring its own trailer and license plates. I had won illegally but was too embarrassed to tell anyone. My victory will be forever prefaced by an asterisk, a footnote indicating: Achieved with the use of illegal performance-enhancing metal.

FOUR

She Was the Enemy

My neighborhood was rich with playmates, and we competed in every sport we could imagine. We created our own leagues for everything. We had a basketball league divided up into two-man teams. Our stadium was at Danny O’Neil’s house where we kept score and tracked rebound statistics from a little hut off the side of the house. I would offer a jump shot (minus the jump) from the top of the cement which was usually followed by my yelling, Off alerting my teammate Neil Carboy that my shot was off its target. Neil would battle Danny’s partner Jerry Lenze under the boards for the rebound, as Danny and I would await the victor’s outlet pass. This was our Madison Square Garden, where Danny’s Aunt Mimi sometimes sang the national anthem for us before the game, as we stood still, our hands over our hearts. If we could, we would have charged admission. Many years later, my alert of Off was changed to a real health warning in the form of FORE as many an errant tee shot would go horribly off course.

My stepfather was the coach of my little league baseball team, so we had all the equipment. On the off days, our front lawn became Yankee Stadium. The catcher wore all the gear. First base was a designated cobble stone, second base was an actual base at the back of the driveway, third base was the stoop, and we had a real home plate. The lawn was worn out in a diamond shape that provided the base paths. Looking back as an adult, it amazed me how small our field was but at the time it seemed just right.

My stepbrother and I had a large collection of NFL team helmets plus a couple of pairs of shoulder pads. Of course, we had to have our own neighborhood football team. The kids would come over to pick the helmet of their favorite team on a first-come-first-serve basis. As we got a little older, we became a traveling football team that played other nearby neighborhood teams. We would ride two on a bicycle wearing our helmets and pads. Luckily, we lived one block from Mepham High School, which we took full advantage of whenever we could. Sometimes, Jay would be the official quarterback, and we would play one-on-one or two-against-two. I had no problem burying my helmet into my opponent’s gut and stepping over their crumpled bodies.

I looked up to Jay in many different ways. One was his size. He was much taller than I with a sturdy athletic frame. I had a lot of talent and enormous heart but was built like a walking X-ray. Jay was always lifting weights and studied karate. He would blend protein drinks containing raw eggs and bananas and suck them down while he pounded a bucket of rice to harden his knuckles. He liked to crush my head like a walnut while flexing his eighteen-inch biceps, which he measured weekly. I, on the other hand, watched TV at night, while drinking Schaeffer beer and eating Saltine crackers in hopes of gaining a single ounce.

It is because of Jay, that to this day, I cannot stand the smell of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He would pin me on my back and hold my arms down under his legs. Then he would take a large bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, lean over and huff in my face. He would cackle with delight as I wiggled in total disgust.

But revenge is bittersweet. One holiday, we were lying among the guest’s coats that were piled up on my Aunt Kay’s bed, watching a small black-and-white television. But as any kids of our age, we started messing around, and yours truly delivered a deadly strike to Jay’s lower spine area that left him flattened like an empty Coke can for the rest of the afternoon. That’ll teach him to keep his stink breath to himself.

Sports were the dominant interest in our lives. Every neighborhood had that one person who hated the kids on the block, ours was no exception. We had The Keeper of the Ball lady. Her house was on the corner, and it was painted prison gray with a gray metal fence that cordoned off the property. The bottom of the fence curled up in places revealing menacing fangs. Twisted metal snaked around the fence, ending in a Y at the top, daring young boys to cross its boundaries, ready to shred flesh from the bone. She patrolled the yard with her white guard dog.

When she wasn’t out on patrol, she stood watch from her kitchen window guard tower. We would be totally engulfed in our own World Series game or Super Bowl when suddenly, a misguided ball would enter the forbidden zone. Everyone would stop in their tracks and not say a word. The Keeper of the Ball lady would charge out of nowhere to scoop up the ball with her guard dog leading the way. They would both bark at us as they slowly withdrew back into their hiding place rejoicing over a new capture.

The Keegan brothers across the street were very daring and occasionally hopped the spiked metal fence risking life and limb, retrieve the ball and hustled back over before the monster could strike. I believed she had one room completely filled with every type of ball imaginable, and I pictured her jumping around on them, laughing demonically, like it was the plastic ball pen at McDonald’s. I can’t tell you how many times our World Series or Super Bowl games were called off due to lack of ball. As kids, we despised her. She was the enemy.

My parents were extremely sociable and always had parties and friends over for cards. As I got older, my perspective changed, and pickup street games slowly gave way to thoughts of girls. The Keeper of the Ball lady became an occasional guest, and I later realized that she actually had a name, Hazel Lyle. My childhood enemy stood about four foot eight inches tall, and her vicious guard dog was actually a cute little Yorkshire terrier that had since died. She had been a widow for many years with no immediate family to speak of. She was a very lonely old lady who turned to caring for her lawn as her only outlet and focus of her life.

My perception of her patrolling was really only her tending to her lawn that she loved so much. Now with open, maturing eyes, I could see that she maintained her property like it was the Pebble Beach Golf Course with beautiful flowers accentuating the perfectly trimmed grass. As I grew older, her intimidation factor weakened. She was usually invited over for Christmas and would show up with a baseball that I had hit over her fence six years earlier as a peace offering. She was actually a very nice person who just needed someone to talk to. This was something you didn’t realize when you’re ten years old, and the game you’re enjoying comes to an abrupt halt.

FIVE

Its Bras, Ladies and Gentlemen!

My room was upstairs to the left, and my stepbrother’s was to the right. A white louver door guarded my fortress from the outside world even though it had no lock. It was like a large wooden venetian blind that you could never shut all the way. Light green walls angled toward a white ceiling like a tent. A dark, blue-green, indoor/outdoor carpet covered the floor. Years later, a wine spill commemorating my loss of virginity, would leave a stain on the carpet like a bruise.

STOP, ONE WAY, and NO PARKING street signs that once commanded motorists to obey their written voice or risk fines hung silent on my wall in retirement. A hand-painted orange bed frame sat against the wall on the right, and my dresser was positioned to the left of the door. Dusty baseball and bowling trophies stood atop any available flat surface. A matching small desk and chair occupied the space below the window. I spent many years gazing through that window with a view of the neighbor’s backyard. As time passed, the desk seemed to shrink, not allowing my legs to fit comfortably underneath; all the while, the neighbor’s tree branches seemed to reach out toward my window, trying to get a glimpse inside my life like probing paparazzi.

My friend’s home had an attic that had a small pull-down ladder you used to gain entrance like you were going topside in a submarine. My attic was inside the wall on both sides of the room, as if the house had somehow continued to grow, pushing the attic off to the side. I remember as a kid growing up, an older gentleman explained to me that he wasn’t going bald; he was just outgrowing